Commentary

All digits, no names

OOOKAAAYYY! SO NOW we know just how sensitive women can be about their time of the month. Gosh people, last week I was making light of the situation, not professing to be an expert at it. It's my failing I guess, assuming that people are able to not take themselves too seriously.

Speaking of failings, ever had one of those experiences where you run into somebody you know but had not seen in a long time and can't remember their names or sometimes where you know them from? I have. All the time.

During the course of my life I got around a lot and almost every day, it seems, I run into somebody from my past that I know I know and who knows me and we proceed to have these ridiculously difficult conversations. 'How are you? Long time no see!' (Even though I can't remember where I knew you from in the first place). And my all-time favourite question, 'where are you now?' (like I knew where the heck you were in the first place). I say all these things and I often barely hear the responses, because all the time this is going on my mind is screaming the most burning question: "What the hell is your name again?!"

Like everyone else I could just ask 'what's your name again?', but the thing that restrains the question from bursting forth is the continuing growth of my conscience, which prevents me from embarrassing the person. After all, if you knew someone well and, as is often the case with me, shared many memorable moments with, you assume the person is thinking 'the least he could have done is remember my name'.

Sometimes they do ask if I remember and you would think that given this window of opportunity I would jump right through. Pride, however, is a hell of a thing and instead of just conceding and putting the discomfort behind me, I keep the charade going with some silly comment like "of course I remember your name. What kind of person do you think I am?"

A person who can't remember a simple name, that's who.

Then comes the part that makes the situation ever more difficult ­ exchanging phone numbers. I usually rummage through my wallet and come up with an old business card and suggest that the person jot their numbers down on the back of it, all the while making promises that I will call. I will stay in touch.

Yeah, right. That possibility often disappears as soon as the person walks away because as you get to look at where the numbers have been jotted down you realise that there is one very important piece of information missing ­ the name.

Here again is where I find I can get myself out of the jam, but foolish pride won't allow me to. I could just flip out my phone and call, asking "What is your name again?" It might be a tad discomforting, but at least I would know I have a name to go with the number, so I can store it in my phone and call as I see fit.

However, that's not the case and in a few days or weeks, depending on how fast my Alzheimer's is progressing, I know I will be looking at numbers and asking myself 'whose numbers are these?'.

Right now I have dozens of such business cards with numbers scribbled on the backs of them, numbers of people I am supposed to be calling back if only I could remember who they were.

It's something that I know I have to work on, though, because I cannot possibly go on living like this. There are many people who I would like to re-establish contact with because they were fun to be around and they made life so much more worth living, but that's not going to happen if the only thing I can remember is that I can't remember.